


Broken Memories

by hitthehospital



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Dean growing up, Drabble, Memories, im sorry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-09
Updated: 2016-07-09
Packaged: 2018-07-22 14:43:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,323
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7443121
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hitthehospital/pseuds/hitthehospital
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A short story of Dean's childhood</p>
            </blockquote>





	Broken Memories

The boy sits in the dark with a baby in his arms. Barely four years old, his life is crashing around him in a mess of fire and timber. Losing his mother was quick. Losing his father would take years.  
The fire left burns- invisible, but still present. The boy would carry them throughout his life.  
The baby cries. So does the boy, but he holds the infant closer all the same.  
In that moment, the boy made a silent promise to his brother, to look after him no matter what.

The boy never broke his promise.

When the boys left their home they left their lives, everything that could have been. Hopes and dreams and any prospect of normality burned in the house that night with their mother. They spent their lives between towns, in dingy motel rooms as their father travelled around for "work". Dean never thought his father abandoned them, but he did. Away for days at a time, the man only returned to teach his sons hand to hand combat and knife fighting. Each cut and nick left its mark. He wasn't there when Dean couldn't talk. It was Dean who reached out to his brother when Sam couldn't sleep.

The only childhood the Winchester boys had was with Bobby, but the dream didn't last long. Their father came back angry that Bobby had let his sons slack. The two men argued about what was best for Sam and Dean, how hunting wasn't a life fit for children.

But there were times when they felt real, like they had a real childhood. When Dean and Sammy stood on the top of the shed, makeshift shirt capes flying behind them. Balanced in the edge of the roof, toes poking over. His brother watched in awe as he crouched and leaped to the ground, rolling across the hard soil. He stood up, laughing. Sam inched toward the end of the roof. Don't  
Sam tilted his head. _Why not? You did it._  
_But I'm superman. I can fly. You're batman, you can't._  
Sam frowned, eyebrows creasing under his mop of hair. His tiny fists clenched and he screwed up his eyes as he jumped off the edge.  
He screamed.  
_Sammy!_  
Dean collapsed on the floor next to his brother, asking him if he was okay, if he was hurt.  
Sam only replied in sobs, tears streaming down his now red face. Dean felt around Sam's body, repeating the questions, tears welling in his eyes. Sam clutched his arm protectively. When Dean brushed against he shrieked. The older brother lifted the small boy into his arms, Sam letting out an inhuman wail. Dean carried him over to his rusty bike, discarded on the side of the road. He propped the bike up between his legs and somehow manoeuvred the screaming child onto the handlebars. _Hold on, Sammy._  
And Dean peddled as fast as he could, speeding to the nearest hospital.  
The Dean sprinted into the ER, brother in arms, the bike discarded on the pavement.  
He doesn't like to remember the rest, only the heroic act, the knowing that Sammy was safe. Not the aftermath. Not the series of questions the nurses had for the brothers. Not the argument Bobby had with the doctors, four hours later. Just the act.  
Because he had kept his promise, even if the foundations of the dream crumbled.

Dean cared for Sam, feeding him, teaching him, holding him when his nightmares plagued his mind. He never broke his promise.

At 16 it was this promise that caused him to steal, landing him in a home for Juveniles. It was the place where he spent the best 6 months of his life - a time where he could be an average teenager, with an average life and average problems. He had a father figure he could rely on, a girlfriend that listened, a place to call his own. Dean was abandoned, but happy. He glimpsed the possible life he could have had, drinking it in and pretending that this existence could be secured-  
Then reality rolled in, stepping out of the black Chevy Impala, boots crunching on the gravel. His surrogate father knocked on his door, told him his dad was here to pick him up, said he didn't have to go if he didn't want to. Dean's eyes burned with hot, angry tears, angry at his dad, angry at the world, angry at himself. He couldn't leave. He wouldn't-  
But there was the boy he had made his promise to. Badly cut brown hair and flannel covered arms poked out of the car, model plane in hand. He looked a mess, the cuffs of his shirt not even buttoned. Dean couldn't be young, he couldn't be selfish - he had a brother who needed him.  
He returned to the reality that many thought was fiction, his dreams and hopes once again shattered. He was better without the dream, the glass separating him from real world, because when glass smashes it cuts and bleeds and scars.

Forth of July, 1996. The boy, now verging on manhood, drove through the dark, dark night. His brother sat beside him, feet on the seat and head against the window, sleeping through the thrum of Zeppelin from the car radio. Dean pulled over a parked in the field, nudging Sam with his hand. The boy awoke with a start. When he saw his brother he relaxed, shoulders falling and mouth lifting.  
Dean's feet sunk into the soft mud as he stepped out of the Impala. Sam bounded towards the middle of the field with a crate of fireworks, the grin on his face lighting the way.  
Sam set the box on the ground, hurriedly grabbing two of the slim cylinders and passing one to his brother. Dean pulled out his lighter and flicked the cog. The small flicker of fire burned the cylindrical fireworks as the two boys held them above their heads, sparking and crackling and burning. The gunpowder exploded, rocketing into the air and falling in a rain of purple and red and blue.  
Dean smiled as his brother ran to the crate, flicked the lighter, igniting the rockets. The flares illuminated the field, throwing jagged shadows into the surrounding trees. The older boy watched the display with bitter joy, desperately reaching for a distant memory of laughter and hot dogs and clear starry nights. He sighed.  
Arms wrapped around him and a heavy head fell on his chest. He smiled. Sammy looked up as Dean cloaked his arms around him. Dad would never let them do anything like this. The younger boy broke away, beaming up at his brother. Dean never broke his promise.  
Sammy danced underneath the falling sparks, his face glowing brighter than any of the fiery flowers as Dean watched on. Embers and cinders floated down, down, down onto the pair, singeing their skin, imprinting the memory on their hearts. The boy burned once again with hope, the dreadful emotion scorching him, leaving marks.

Tension was ever present between Sammy and their father as the boy grew. Dean always thought it was because they were too alike, yet his brother argued against it. Whatever it was, it caused remarks and sneers and barks and shouts and screams, making Dean's stomach turn. It made cracks.  
He woke in the early hours, hand outreached to an empty bed. Sammy had fled. Telling his father always resulted in shouting and screaming. _Why can't you take care of your brother? Why can't you keep him with you?_  
It was always Dean's fault that his brother left, always his fault that Sammy wasn't what John wanted. So it was always Dean that drove into the night, shrieking his brother's name into the dark. Throat raw, empty gas tank, dawn creeping across the sky. The old motel room was too small, too small. Phones dialled, familiar voices across the line. No hope. _He's not here_ , they said, they would call other hunters.  
Dean lay on the bed. He sobbed and groaned, releasing his sorrow from his mouth. He was going to puke. He was suffocating, drowning. There was a cavernous space in his stomach that he couldn't fill, no matter how hard he tried. He cried. He hated himself for crying. He needs to stop being a little bitch, a wimp, be a man. He was empty and full and angry and frustrated and-  
And guilty. He blamed himself. For everything. He should have been there, should have done something-  
And Dean shattered.  
The shards splintered as they hit the ground, scattering and skittering across the room, between the cracks in the floor boards and under the bed.  
The sun rose, cutting through the blinds and igniting the glass. Dean opened his eyes, groaning from his sloom. Dean picked up the pieces of his broken soul, fitting them together with glue and tape. But fragments were missing, nestled in the dust where they could not be reached. His appearance never changed, yet he was worn and dull in the ways that mattered. He plastered on a mask, a smile to contain the fluid hate.

He continued to hunt with his father. But the trips were filled with the bitter absence of his brother. Dean was never good enough, never strong enough, never fast enough. Never. Too much of a wimp, too dumb, a smart ass, a whining bitch, too reckless, not willing to take chances. He was never enough.  
But he was loyal, oh so loyal. Willing to die for his father, willing to kill for him. Reduced to an obedient attack dog.

And then dad was gone. And he was left alone. And his only hope was his brother. He told himself he would only ask his help this one time, and then they would both go their separate ways.  
But then Jess burned.  
Sam was broken.  
Dean watched as his brother crumbled.  
The liquid pushed against his sides, tricking through the cracks, leaking down the side.

Sam changed.  
He could do things no human should.  
And Dean was scared.  
His fear translated into ignorance.  
His ignorance translated into anger.

But then Sammy was taken from him.

He held his brother in his arms like the first night. Much too young, much too soon. He was too pale, too cold as the blood stained Dean's shirt, his life leaking out of him. All his warmth gone. His doe eyes glazed as he stared into the dark sky beyond Dean.  
And Dean cried.  
The hot hate leaked from his eyes and mixed with red.  
It was his fault.  
He should have been there, should have done something.  
The evil liquid bubbled and writhed within him, poisoning his thoughts and intoxicating his judgement.  
He had broken his promise.

The night pressed in, dark entering his mouth, his nose, his eyes. The gravel crunched against his boots, too loud.  
The anger slammed against him.  
Come on already.  
_Show your face, you bitch._  
And she appeared, all burn and smoke.  
She smiled, slinking toward Dean, her face an inch from his. The smell of sulphur engulfed him.  
He growled, fingers itching.  
_Following in daddy's footsteps, you want to make a deal. Little Sammy back from the dead, for - let me guess - your soul?_ She smirked.  
The words burn into Dean's skin.  
_There are a hundred other demons who'd love to get their hands on it. And it's all yours. All you got to do is bring Sam back. And give me ten years— ten years, and then you come for me._  
She laughed, and Dean sparked.  
_That's the same deal you give everyone else._  
The demon inched closer, her mouth to his ear. _You're not everybody._  
Dean burned.  
_Why would I want to give you anything? Keep your gutter soul. It's too tarnished, anyway._  
His hate scorched his insides. _Nine years_.  
_No._  
 _Eight_.  
She barked out a laugh, short and cruel. _You keep going, I'll keep saying no._  
Dean's self loathing trickled through the cracks. _Okay, five years. Five years, and my bill comes due. That's my last offer— five years or no deal._  
The demon smiled softly, leaning in to him, their lips millimetres apart. She grinned viciously. _Then no deal._  
The hate pooled in his stomach. _Fine._  
_Fine._ She smiled, turning and walking away. The demon stopped. _Make sure you bury Sam before he starts stinking up the joint._  
Dean was drowning now, a toxic mixture of anger and blame and desperation, brewing and burning.  
_Wait._  
She turned, speaking softly. _It's a fire sale. Everything must go._  
_What do I have to do?_ The question was too fast.  
_First of all, quit groveling. Needy guys are such a turnoff._ She sighed. _Look... Look, I shouldn't be doing this. I could get in a lot of trouble. But what can I say? I got a blind spot for you, Dean. You're like a... puppy. You're just too fun to play with._ She grinned cruelly. _I'll do it._  
Dean's heart skipped a beat, hope fluttering in his stomach. _You'll bring him back?_  
_I will. And because I'm such a saint, I'll give you one year, and one year only._  
She slunk toward him. _But here's the thing. If you try and welch or weasel your way out, then the deal is off. Sam drops dead. He's back to rotten meat in no time. So..._ She stood face to face with him now. _It's a better deal than your dad ever got. What do you say?_  
Dean grabbed the demon and forced his lips against hers, and all he could think was I'm doing this for Sam, I'm doing it for him whilst the sulphur rotted his damned soul.

The year passed too quickly. He was gone too soon. The only solace he had in the unspeakable pain as he was torn apart beyond recognition was that he kept his promise. Sammy was alive. He kept his promise.

**Author's Note:**

> I just saw a load of posts about Dean's childhood and it made me very sad - so here is my outpouring.


End file.
